


Yours And Yours Alone

by Britpacker



Series: Yours Alone [1]
Category: Star Trek: Enterprise
Genre: M/M, POV First Person, Vulcan Bonds And How To Break Them
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-02
Updated: 2015-11-22
Packaged: 2018-04-24 11:36:54
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,350
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4918054
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Britpacker/pseuds/Britpacker
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It’s what they both want to be, but with a big T’Pol shaped cloud hanging over their new romance is that ever going to be possible for Trip and Malcolm?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Binds That Tie

**Author's Note:**

> As far as I’m concerned Enterprise ended after Demons/Terra Prime; I refuse to acknowledge the travesty that was TATV in any way, shape or form. Spoilers for the whole of Season 4 run through the first part, and the premise is based on a major plot strand of Season 3.

“T’Pol to Lieutenant Reed.” 

It’s perfectly routine; the second in command hailing the Chief Tactical Officer. If I was out in the main armoury nobody would turn a hair, but I’m bloody glad I’m not.

I’ve been expecting this. There’s no avoiding it, but I believe the most embarrassing conversation of my life to date is about to be superseded. How do I get myself into these things?

“Reed.” 

I don’t mean to be curt but my stomach’s a spiky tangle of barbed wire coils. It’s just as well T’Pol’s not one for the niceties. 

“I wish to speak with you immediately, Lieutenant. Please join me in my quarters.”

“On my way.” Yes, I was right to bury myself in meaningless reports. That would’ve raised eyebrows even among my staff, and they’ve proven astonishingly discreet confronted with the ongoing saga that is the Chief Engineer, his Vulcan ex and their boss, his male lover.

_On this week’s exciting episode of Starship! the soap opera in space…_

Ever since Trip called me out of the blue, inviting me for a drink at the 602 when we were last home – the heroes of the hour, the crew who stopped the Xindi weapon – it seems I’ve been spinning through existence at the controls of a freefalling shuttlepod. I have everything I ever dreamed of, but there’s a very old adage about being careful what you wish for and I’ll never roll my eyes when Mother uses it again.

He’d just seen the woman he loved marry a stranger. Do her family duty. I assumed he wanted the inside track from someone intimately acquainted with the concept – theoretical only, I admit – of filial obedience. He cried on my shoulder when she first hinted at her intentions. It stood to reason he’d want to do the same having been forced to watch her following through.

Maybe it started out that way; I can’t remember now. The one vivid memory I have of that night is of hard, hungry kisses at my door; the heavenly pressure of another man’s hard-on butting my stomach; his voice, rough with a mixture of alcohol, breathlessness and tears against my ear. “Fuck, Malcolm, I couldn’t have gotten through any ‘f this without you!”

And that’s how my neat, lonely existence was turned into this chaotic life. Since then we’ve been like two pieces of space debris bouncing around an asteroid belt, magnetically drawn together before the force of our collision blasts us apart, the fragments coalescing to crash again. It’s been two steps forward, one step back, the most muddled, overwhelming, terrifying and wonderful relationship I’ve ever had. 

By the time we’d seen off Soong’s genetically-enhanced monstrosities we knew what we both wanted: _us_ , Trip Tucker and Malcolm Reed. We agreed to take it slowly, aware of the scars left by the Expanse, and his liaison with our resident screwed-up Vulcan. No forcing the pace; no falling into bed before we were ready. Just the certain, glorious knowledge that we love each other; we’re there for each other; and we agree completely on where we want this _thing_ to go

Getting there’s been a struggle, but what’s new with us? Between my insecurity and his confusion and with that big, shapely black cloud called T’Pol hanging over us it’s a miracle we ever got beyond the first kiss but we’re stubborn buggers. Having decided we want something, we’re not going to give up on it easily. 

Raw physical attraction saw us through some tough times, and I’ll long cherish the memory of those lovely, lazy evenings _making out_ , as they call it on my bunk or the chair beside his viewport. Then there was work, and those pet projects of mine he finds so endlessly fascinating. If either of us felt things were going too fast, or getting too heavy, we’d pull up the E.M. barrier specs or start debating upgrades to the long-range scanners. It takes a workaholic to understand one and I’ve always known Trip is my equal in that regard. 

Things rather came to a head during our excursion to the Romulan drone, where I let my doubts show with an embarrassing question about his intentions, what with Koss filing for divorce or whatever the Vulcan equivalent may be. One of these days I’ll learn to control my mouth in those _probably almost definitely certain death_ situations we keep landing in. 

We made love for the first time that night. Simple, non-penetrative sex, working each other to climax with our hands before crawling into his bed and bringing ourselves off a second time from the friction of skin on naked skin. I fell asleep in his arms after and didn’t stir ‘til the alarm went off. 

I’ve never been happier than I was that day. Should’ve known it couldn’t last. 

For a while we snatched every spare second we could together. Then he bolted. 

Would I have behaved differently when Harris made contact, if Trip hadn’t been hiding aboard Colombia? I can’t be sure but he knows me so well, better than Archer, Hoshi and Harris combined. If anyone could’ve made me talk, forced me to re-evaluate my choices and actions, it would’ve been Trip. 

Not that he was in much of a condition to evaluate anything. It hurt like hell that he was leaving – I practically accused him of running away and he didn’t argue – but everything came together a short time later. 

That conversation in his quarters makes me shudder even now. I’m not sure what the thing is Vulcans do in place of shrivelling up in mortified horror, but T’Pol was doing it with a vengeance that night. 

I suppose imposing a psychic bond on an unsuspecting human, invading his mind without so much as a by-your-leave then not bothering to explain it for almost a whole year isn’t the easiest thing to confess, but I wasn’t inclined to be generous. No bloody wonder Trip struggled to work out how he felt about her, or me! Every time he tried to get closer, she was in the way. 

“I – misinterpreted the neural impulses I was receiving from Commander Tucker,” she said. Still couldn’t bring herself to use his name, the stuck-up cow. “I was aware of his… unusually intense erotic thoughts, and it was only logical to assume they were connected to his bondmate.” 

To her. 

“Look T’Pol, Ah’m sorry if Ah hurt y’, but when Ah said Ah wasn’t havin’ daydreams about y’ Ah was tellin’ the truth.” His accent broadens exponentially when he’s emotional. It’s rather attractive, but it doesn’t half require concentration. “And Malcolm – darlin’ Ah’m so sorry! Ah hurt you again!” 

“I think there were some extenuating circumstances, Co – Trip.” He managed a watery grin at the slip-up but it’s true: his bolt, just when I was really starting to believe in us, was ten times more painful than the old percussion bullet through the leg and believe me, I should know. “So: what do we do about it?” 

She said she’d investigate the possibilities. Said she’d take care meditate at the first sign of intimacy between us, then backtracked like a frightened crab when she realised what she’d given away. 

Not only does she have a hotline to my boyfriend’s thoughts, she can use it to eavesdrop on our most private moments. I know I might be a bit old-fashioned sometimes, but even the exhibitionist with the galaxy’s gaudiest collection of Hawaiian shirts blenched at the prospect of an audience for our extended bouts of tonsil-tennis. “T’Pol,” he said firmly. “The bond’s gotta go. Me and Malcolm need our privacy, okay?” 

She was still investigating when the excrement made contact with the air conditioning device. In the face of Terra Prime, everything else seemed unimportant. 

It’s a pity Paxton is what’s colloquially called a _celebrity prisoner_. I’d have taken the greatest of pleasure in refining my Section 31 interrogation techniques on him given the opportunity (and privacy) and for once there wouldn’t be a shred of guilt. 

In a way he’s directly responsible for this conversation I’m dawdling toward, taking the longest possible shipboard route to terminal discomfort. He created Elizabeth, the hybrid. His idea of a freak show from the combination of conveniently available human and Vulcan DNA. 

Trip came to me after her memorial. Ashen, his face streaked with grime and tears, holding out his arms and silently begging me to take the pain away. If only it were possible! 

I did the only thing I could, holding him while he cried, stroking his hair as he ranted against Paxton, humanity and the evil fucking universe in general. I kissed away his tears and whispered my love for him; swore to him and myself that he’d never have to endure anything alone again. When he worked a hand into my underwear and brushed those wonderful words _I want you Malcolm. Please_ against my ear, I didn’t have the strength to resist. 

All our weeks of gentle, cautious exploration were blown to smithereens that night. I’ve had a man or two in my time; I’ve fucked and been fucked, felt a lover’s arse milk me for everything and given the same in return, but I’ve never had anyone quite like Trip. Even desperate, even driven to the brink with grief and rage, he took me with tenderness. Made me feel, even when he was pounding me like a runaway starship, that I was the most precious thing he’d ever known. 

We both cried after: for Elizabeth and her namesake; for Marcel, and Taylor; for Hawkins, Hayes, Fuller… for all the losses we’ve had to bear these last two years, physical and psychological. We woke up all wrapped up together, stuck around the midriff with stale come and feeling – there’s only one word for it and to my eternal chagrin it was Trip who found it first - cleansed. 

Then, right off breakfast, we came face to face with _her_. 

Maybe I’m projecting my own embarrassment onto her but I’d swear I saw a Vulcan blush when we gathered in the situation room. Then she interrupted us at lunch, leaning over on the pretext of sniffing Trip’s pasta to whisper that _recent developments_ rendered the breaking of their bond imperative. 

That was three hours ago. She doesn’t waste time, when it suits her. 

Unlike me. She’s waiting at the door, Trip looming over her shoulder and bugger, I’ve really dilly-dallied haven’t I? Un-officerlike behaviour, Reed. Quite out of character. 

“I’ve received an answer from the priests on Vulcan.” She doesn’t bother with those little human courtesies and I can see his gentlemanly instincts are affronted that the door’s barely shut before she swings to confront us. Trip’s hand wraps around mine. 

I’m sure he’s trying to be reassuring but he’s trembling, and that rather spoils the effect. “And?” he snaps. 

“We should leave for Vulcan immediately. The bond can be broken with the consent of both parties, but the council of priests needs to be persuaded it’s the logical thing to do.” 

“A human and a Vulcan, and they’re lookin’ for a logical reason to break it?” That’s my Trip, leading from the lip. “What do they want, a note from Phlox?” 

She’s getting her composure back by the day; a week ago she’d have been riled by so much unrepentant rudeness. “I believe they want proof that our connection is harmful to both parties, Commander. Vulcan bonds are sacred. They can only be severed when it’s obvious they were formed through… highly irrational behaviour.” 

He snorts, but the use of rank has its effect. “Sorry,” he grunts, slumping down uninvited onto the one uncomfortable chair she keeps for visitors and pulling me down onto his lap. “If they want proof, they’ve got it! This damn bond’s hurt you and me… and Malcolm.” 

His voice breaks on my name and he hugs me tight enough to endanger a couple of ribs. T’Pol dips her head. 

“Indeed. That’s partly why I’m suggesting Mister Reed accompanies us. Our - my – actions in forming a bond have injured an innocent party. The council will take that into consideration." 

“Long time since anyone’s called me innocent,” I mutter, desperate to inject a little levity into proceedings. Anything to distract myself from the way my stomach’s just flipped as if we’ve dropped to zero-g. 

Go to Vulcan? Sit on the side-lines twiddling my thumbs while the man I love has his ex’s mind forcibly disentangled from his? The things one does for love! 

Because I’m going to do it. There’s no room for debate, even before she throws the sucker punch. 

“The purging ritual may be – difficult for both of us.” Bearing in mind that Vulcans do under-statement as well as the British I don’t want to ponder that too deeply. “Once it’s done, I will retreat to Mount Selaya to continue my study of kohlinar. I doubt deep meditation will be of similar comfort to you.” 

“Now what’d give y’ that idea?” Trip’s feeling it too, the awkwardness. “I think you’d better tell me what this ritual’s all about.” 

She’d rather eat gagh with shards of glass, but he’s not an easy man to deflect and she knows it. “We will be expected to examine in detail the emotions that led us to mate.” 

“Ouch.” Not for the first time I think Trip’s read my mind, but it’s not the bald terminology he’s concerned about. “That’s gonna be embarrassing.” 

She actually blenches. “Love, I think it’s going to be a lot more than that for T’Pol.” 

“What’s a little embarrassment against a Vulcan’s loss of self-control, huh?” In his heavy-handed way he’s trying to be sympathetic but I could cuff the silly bugger. “Guess it’s a pity Ah’m just irresistible.” 

“And modest.” 

We say it in unison and she almost matches my smile. “Our situation is unique, Trip,” she tells him and she’s calmer now, as if the worst’s behind us. I wish I could believe it! “Even the most venerated priests have never witnessed the severance of a Vulcan-human bond. They can’t be certain how either of us will respond, but they believe as I do that the presence of your life mate will be helpful.” 

“Knowing Malcolm’s around’s always helpful t’ me, T’Pol.” Damn the man, he’s kissing my nape, just along the hairline. I hope I’m not expected to stand up within the next five minutes! “I just hope someday you’ll find someone as special t’ bond with.” 

“Until our connection is broken, that’s unlikely.” 

She doesn’t ask for our sympathy but in my case she has it. _Bonding_ with Charles Tucker the Third has enriched my life like nothing before. I wish all the people I care about, and yes, that does include T’Pol, could experience something like it. 

“When do we leave?” Focussing on the practical is a lifetime’s habit, as useful to calm the butterflies in my stomach now as it was in preparing for our mission to the Xindi weapon. I think T’Pol understands, or at least appreciates the logic. 

“I’ll speak with the captain. With his agreement, a Vulcan transport can be here tomorrow.” 

I’m on my feet, but Trip’s still slumping in the chair. “’s not the way I was hopin’ to spend this shore leave,” he grouses. I can’t stop myself reaching out to ruffle his hair.

“We’ve got three months, you know. Please tell me the ritual isn’t going to take that long, T’Pol!”

“Once the council are persuaded of our case we can being immediately, but I suggest you remain a day after it’s done. Vulcan physicians are better equipped than their human counterparts to assess any after-effects.” 

I’ve gone cold. It’s like being dragged back in time to a freezing shuttlepod, hanging dead in an asteroid belt. “I assume this procedure is safe, Commander.” 

“Vulcans can experience severe exhaustion following Severance, Lieutenant. Occasionally there are mild hallucinations; extreme lassitude; a feeling of isolation or emptiness. However, the effects are more pronounced in the partner who initiated the bond; and for all three of us its removal is likely to be far less dangerous than its continuance.” 

“T’Pol’s the expert here, darlin’.” 

I’m sure he does it on purpose: the endearment soothes and excites me at the same time and no, I don’t understand how it’s possible either. “In that case, I suggest we start packing, Mister Tucker,” I say, firing off the syllables with the precision he says is _awful sexy_ by way of retaliation. “We’ll await your instruction, Commander.”

Given the way he’s fixating on my bum as I saunter out the door, I’m going to have plenty to keep me occupied in the meantime. 


	2. Severance

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Vulcan hospitality, as experienced by one rather reluctant Southern visitor.

I thought it’d be easier this time.

I mean I’d done it before, sitting in the public area of a Vulcan ship zippin’ its way home at Warp 6.5. Watching noses twitch when anyone got a little too close and feeling my teeth set on edge every time somebody ever-so-politely offered me water or some kind of goddamn bland excuse for a meal. I thought having someone to share it – having Malcolm by my side – it’d be different.

It was. It was worse. 

He was so damn _constrained_. God knows I love that prickly, difficult little Limey dynamo more than life itself and I know he’s crazy about me – he wouldn’t be putting himself through this otherwise – but you’d have thought we were strangers the way we sat there by the viewport, just staring into space.

T’Pol was no help either. Meditating, she said. I swear that’s just Vulcan for _hidin’ in a corner_.

Maybe I should try it. I want this damn purging, right? I need to get her completely out of my head so I can be with Malcolm the way I want. The way he deserves. 

Aren’t I the dumb hick that whooped for joy when that row of sour crows – sorry, the Jury of the Venerable, can’t be too careful with Vulcans and telepathy around here – decreed that our bond was _formed in carnal error_?

Malcolm’s got some kissing better to do. I’ll have the imprint of his toecap in my shin for a week.

Malcolm. They said I should think about him while they get the chamber ready and I’m all gussied up in a loose white robe that looks kind of soft and feels like the wire coat of that bad-tempered scruffball pup Lizzie adopted when she was six. Remember why it’s important to break my tie with T’Pol. Think what’s waiting for me in the city.

I wonder what he’s doing right now.

Wearing a groove in the floor of his room, I bet. Pacing, knotting his fingers together and mussing up his hair, snarling and a-spittin’ at anyone that gets too close. Imagining all kinds of bad things going on out here that he can’t control. If I close my eyes and reach out I’d swear I can touch him, he’s so real.

He smiles when I touch his face. He didn’t take long to figure I’ve got a _thing_ for those cheekbones, proof Mother Nature’s got the goods to lick a micro chisel and laser emery any day. I’m lost every time I watch him get bashful, those long, dark chocolate lashes sweeping down to rest on the peaks. Then he’ll look up and I start to drown in his ever-changing grey-then-blue-to-grey-again eyes. 

They remind me of the ocean, those eyes. He’d probably hate that, being aquaphobic and all, so maybe they’re more of a stormy sky; dark and ominous one minute, then pure silver when the sun shines through. Folks can tell my mood from my whole face but Malcolm, he’s subtle. You have to check out those eyes, learn to read them, before you’ll really know.

“Commander?” The novice’s voice comes from a light year away but it doesn’t matter. I’m calm now. Focussed. Long as I can hold onto Malcolm’s eyes, see the sun shining through them with love for me, I can handle anything.

The top man’s waiting. T’Pol says it’s a compliment that he’s officiating at the rite himself. I figure he wants to make sure the job’s done properly, chase that pesky emotional human influence out of her Vulcan head. “I’m ready.”

Deep down in my belly there’s a clammy cold Jell-O mass that says I’m a liar, but I’m not thinking of that now. As I follow the high priest into his candle-lit hole in the mountain I’m imagining my man’s smile when I take him by the hand; the way he’ll feel in my arms next time I love him to oblivion. No matter how bad this hurts, it’ll be worth it.

Malcolm, stay with me!

*

Voices. Movement. These guys must deep-down hate humans to try and make me sick this way.

It’s cold. I’m clammy. I want to go home.

Where is _home_?

Malcolm.

Always him. His name, bringing me round better than a faceful of cold water. His image shimmering before my eyes like a mirage in the desert. God, I want him!

I’m being dragged, kind of half carried, half pulled along, sand and stone scraping against my bare feet. I want to resist. I can hear my brain screaming orders but my legs are on an insubordination charge. Lift up! Go to hell!

These monks are a whole lot stronger than they look: either that or they’re used to dumping out the trash. They’re dragging me along like I’m made of straw, and really, that’s embarrassing. I’m wearing a weird wiry robe that’s flapping open, probably giving half the planet a close-up on my weapons array and all I can do is flop, try to remember what my backbone’s for and wait for the ride to be over.

Stairs. Heck, my day just keeps getting better.

They’re not especially careful; my calves are getting a pounding on every sandstone step and there’s nothing I can do about it. I can’t even wrap my tongue around a single word protest and I know, because I’m trying. My mouth’s slipping down to the side, like it’s melting. I can’t feel my limbs.

I’m starting to wish my mind was the same, ‘cause it’s awfully tough to think and not do. I’m an actions kind of guy and right now I can’t hold my chin off the floor without help.

Maybe I should stop trying. Just roll with it, like the cap’n always says. It’s tempting.

We’ve stopped. Whoa, now I’m sliding down my minder like a coolant leak down a cold pipe. Where’s the other guy?

Oh. Knocking on a door.

When it opens there’s a push in the middle of my back that feels like it’s delivered by a Klingon bird of prey, but I don’t care. I’m falling forward into the smell of woods and spice and _man_ , landing up against a solid chest, two strong arms wrapping ‘round me. My haven. The safest place in the universe. “Ma’co’m.”

“If you say so.” His voice is amused but there’s a tightness at the back of it that flows forward when he speaks again, over my head this time. “Thank you. I’ll take care of the commander.”

That’s his _ranking officer_ voice. I want to tell him it don’t work on Vulcan monks – didn’t at P’Jem anyway – but I can’t make the effort and it doesn’t matter, they’ve gone. I can tell without looking, ’cause the sting of dust’ dissolved out of my nostrils. “Mal.”

One complete syllable. That’s progress. 

Damn, my head hurts!

Hey, I thought it was T’Pol had the telepathic hotline? Before I’ve finished thinking it Malcolm’s dropping a rain of kisses on my forehead, hauling me along and yeah, that’s better, maybe when I’m laying down my head won’t spin as much.

“It’s okay love, I’ve got you, it’s all over now.” Fingers in my hair, kisses falling all over my face, I’m feeling better already. Now if someone’d just take these goddamn rocks out of my skull…

“They’ve got more room to roll ‘round now T’Pol’s not taking up space in there.” Right. I must’ve said that out loud. Malcolm shuffles back ‘til he’s propped up on the headboard and I’m sprawled all over him like a great big Tucker-shaped blanket. “If it’s not a daft question… how do you feel?”

Most likely it is but he’s so earnest I’ll let it slide. “Beat.”

That’s kind of obvious but there’s something more: something niggling away at the back of my mind that kind of blossoms now he’s mentioned it. “Empty. ‘s like there’s somethin’ missing in m’ head.”

He laughs, but it’s a tight sound. “As you’re clearly not up to your usual standard of sparkling repartee, I’ll ignore that open goal.” Huh? Now he’s being smart with me. That’s not fair. 

When he starts massaging my temples I decide it doesn’t matter. He can be as mean as he wants, long as he doesn’t stop doing that. “Don’t cry, Trip please, I can’t bear it!”

Am I crying? It’d probably help if I knew why.

He’s wiping away the tears; ghosting his fingers over my lips and I can’t help myself, I have to pull them in and suck hard. That makes him shiver all around me and damn, it feels good!

“Don’t start something you can’t finish, Mistah Tuckah,” he whispers and when I open my eyes he’s right there, his face upside-down as he peeks over me looking all anxious and rumpled and helpless, just the way I pictured him in the cave. 

Remembering it shoots a plasma bolt right through my head. “ _Sonofobitch!_ ” 

That’s got to be me, right? I’m not as sure of it as I should be – it’s my word and all – because right now I don’t know where I am. I can feel his arms around me and sunlight on my face, but at the same time I’m in a dark cavern hearing someone screams inside my skull. I’m laying still and I’m threshin’ around like that goddamn lethal bat of Phlox’s while a million little lasers cut my brain to ribbons. A long, long way away there’s a voice, telling me to focus, to hold onto myself, remember who I am, and that’s what brings everything together.

Malcolm, gazing at me with his heart in those wide-open Atlantic eyes. Malcolm, holding out his hands, beckoning. Reminding me who I am; what I want. Calling me home.

I’ve made it.

It’s like a tidal wave, swelling up out of my belly. The relief. The fact that I’ve got no muscle or bone left doesn’t seem to matter when all I want to do is lay here and howl. I’m Charles Tucker the Third and I’m in love with the man holding me so tight he’d break every bone in my body, if I had any left. 

It’s so clear now: like for months there’s been interference, subspace static over my internal comm. I can identify T’Pol’s presence in my mind now it’s gone and it’s been clouding everything, dulling the edges off of every wonderful, terrible goddamn human emotion I had.

I never knew I love him this much!

“Ssssh, it’s all right, I’m here.” I’m scaring him enough. This ain’t the time for some great declaration and even if I could open my mouth wide enough I’d probably wind up shovin’ both feet in sideways. “Doctor Soral did say you might find it a bit overwhelming at first – not that he put it like that, of course.”

Doctor – who?

“He said you might find it helpful to focus on one thing, so focus on _me_ , Trip. Focus on my voice telling you I love you, can you do that? For me? Close your eyes, breathe deeply and listen to my voice.”

Oh, yeah. I love that voice!

Kind of smoky, rich as the finest melted chocolate but with an accent that makes it all sharp at the edges, I could listen to it forever. Whispering words of love or snarking about power differentials, it doesn’t matter. Erotic fantasies are made of that voice. 

My breathing’s getting longer; slower. The splintering pain in my head’s settling down to that kind of dull, continual ache that’s almost a pleasure, like the woolly feeling you get off the end of a migraine. He’s holding me. He loves me, and I’ve got a lifetime left to show him how grateful I am about that.

*

Shit. How long have I been asleep?

That’s another one for the Trip Tucker List of Dumbass Questions, because the orange light tickling my eyes says it’s daybreak and I know I left their poky little sacred cave a little after dawn yesterday. Fuck, this is _weird_. 

Seems like I know a bundle of things today I didn’t then.

Like that my thoughts are all mine and there’s no alien whisper in my brain. That I’m not tired for the first time since I don’t want to remember when. That I’ve got my head burrowed into my boyfriend’s chest and he’s the nicest damn pillow this side of Granny Johnson’s guest bedroom when I was four years old.

Ow! Not forgetting that if he’s been stuck in this position for as many hours as I think, his spine’s going to be twisted up like one of Chef’s crazy special occasion pretzels. “Morning Malcolm.”

I’m not slurring anymore. That’s good. Figure I’ve got a lot to say for myself today.

“Morning.” Damn. He’s wide awake and holding himself so stiff I’ll bet he’s not slept five minutes in the last Vulcan day. How many hours do those things have? “How’re you feeling?”

“Good.” He doesn’t try to stop me scrambling around and that’s perfect; means I can pull myself up to rub noses, nice and playful before I kiss him hello. “And getting better.”

My body’s doing what I tell it, mostly. One part’s developing a mind of its own but that’s okay because when it cosies into Malcolm’s crotch it starts waking up its best buddy there. I’m pleasantly hard already, that woozy morning feeling giving way to something sharper, more intense, and I have to try a little shimmy, just for the hell of it.

“Trip!” His eyes roll; he’s zoning out on me a bit, his hips coming up and legs falling wider apart. Mighty civil of you, Lieutenant. Don’t mind if I do make myself right at home. Damn, I’ve slept in this nasty monastery bathrobe, and surely he’s finding those jeans a little tight?

I’m good with my hands; he’s out of them in a second and now the robe’s on the floor too, his bare legs tangling up with mine and his shirt – screw the buttons, I’ll buy him another one sometime. I need him naked, need the slide of that cool, milky skin all over. 

He’s moaning softly, puckering his gorgeous mouth into the most kissable pout I’ve ever seen and when I dive in he grabs the back of my head, holding me in place for a ravishing. Who’d’ve thunk Lieutenant Persnickety could be like this, wild and uncontrolled, bucking under my weight while he performs a virtual tonsillectomy with his tongue? 

A piece of me wants to slow down, savour every moment. Another just wants to hear him scream my name when he falls apart, and that’s winning. Hands everywhere, mouths glued and oh my, doesn’t his cock feel sweet smushed up with mine. I’m going dizzy; losing control of my muscles all over again.

I’m coming, and he’s right there with me.

I’ve just got time to feel him go rigid; to see the wonder of it soften those perfect sharp-angled features. Then it’s all heat and light and long, wet spurts of _us_ against my belly, his cry filling my head and it’s all him, enveloping me. A whole new universe of _Malcolm_ to explore.

Right until it crashes in on my head, anyway.


	3. Aftermath

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Everything's changed overnight. Malcolm ruminates on the how and they why.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just an epilogue to this one, but ideas for a smutty sequel are swirling! Thanks for reading and commenting!

“Malcolm? Whadda you think about Tahiti?”

Trip can be rather random at times. Especially after a monumental orgasm. “Er – Captain Bligh and the Bounty?” 

Actually, I’m not much better.

He rolled off me and onto his hip, propped up on one elbow. Hair spiked in a dozen different directions, still breathing heavily, pearls of our come glinting in that luxuriant golden chest rug. “I mean for a vacation, Lew-tennant” he drawled, giving me the faintly pitying look he usually saves for especially slow subordinates on really bad days. “I don’t know about you but I wasn’t plannin’ to spend the next two months around here…”

“A cold corner of Hell would be preferable!” There’s something about Trip – especially a naked Trip – that seems to knock all my self-censorship mechanisms offline.

“Knowin’ our luck it’d be full ‘f Vulcans.” I suppose I’m lucky he didn’t make any comments about shuttlepods and Grim Reapers before he stuck out his bottom lip and wobbled it at me but that’s the marvellous thing about Trip; he’s such an instinctive optimist that he soon cheers himself up. “I want us to have a long vacation together before we go back to Enterprise, and I’m thinking… isolated beach huts with hammocks outside. I’m seein’ long walks on a deserted beach; cold drinks under swaying palms; the two of us makin’ love every night to the sound of the ocean. You with me?”

I’m amazed I managed anything as coherent as a squeak, but it was enough. He bounded off the bed, snatched up his ghastly Vulcan dressing gown and skipped to the monitor, happily immersing himself in the dreary business of travel booking. “Don’t you think you should see a doctor, or the priest or someone?” I fretted, wasting my concern on thin air. “There might be after-effects….”

“You’ll deal with ‘em.” So he was listening after all, and it was at that moment I knew the purging had worked. Before, even in our most intimate moments – I’m amazed I hadn’t identified it before, but I was probably too afraid to – he wasn’t wholly _with_ me.

“Best cure in the galaxy, Malcolm kisses.” He swung away from the screen with that same smug delight I’ve seen a thousand times when he’s solved an especially knotty problem with the EPS grid. “And pack your bags, lover-man. We’re leaving on the Tal’Mar, sixteen hundred hours.”

“Actually – I never unpacked.”

It’s as if the past two years never happened; as if the boisterous, larger-than-life enthusiast I fell in love with a lifetime ago never retreated into his lonely, bitter shell. Head down, he charged me; scooped me up and swung me around like a child before dropping me down for a sloppy, tongue-filled kiss. If our doorbell hadn’t rung when it did I doubt we’d ever have reached the docking hatch.

“’spectin’ visitors?”

“No. You?”

He shook his head. When the door slid back to reveal his ex-bondmate he looked flabbergasted. “I used t’ know you were comin’” he said in lieu of a formal greeting. “Ah didn’t know it ‘til right now, but…”

“The severance was total.” She sounded so small; almost frightened. I hadn’t given a thought to what the whole procedure might mean to her until then, and I’ve tried very hard not to since. “How do you feel?”

“Like me.” I imagine he looked that awed as a little boy the first time he met _Santa Claus_ , or whatever it is the Americans call the big chap in the red pyjamas. “Like Charles Tucker the Third. I’n’t that somethin’?”

“I am – happy for you.” 

She meant it, which must be the greatest proof of her repressed feelings for him. “My ability to control emotion was impared by our bond,” she said with a baldness that rather made the words superfluous. “The physicians believe it will be require a great deal of private meditation before I regain complete control, but I wanted to see you were all right before I left.”

“That’s good ‘f you, T’Pol.” His voice softened on her name and I felt the old mek’leth of jealousy slice my chest. His hand came down, warm and reassuring on my shoulder and the pain subsided. “We’re good. I’n’t that right, Malcolm?”

“I believe so.” Understanding. Support. He made me ashamed of my petty resentments by dissolving them, and when I risked a glance and saw the compassion shining in his eyes I really began to appreciate how the balance had shifted between the three of us. He never read my feelings this clearly before.

Trip grinned. “You’ll be okay too?” he said: less a question than a command. T’Pol nodded.

“The severance was painful, but necessary.” Oh, didn’t I know it! “Will you remain on Vulcan, or…”

“I’m gonna sweep this man ‘f mine off t’ paradise.” He hugged me from behind, pulling me into the cradle of his thighs and nuzzling the side of my neck. “No Starfleet, no communicators… just the two of us.”

“So if we don’t reappear on the appointed date, you can assume we’ve murdered each other.”

The tip of an eyebrow went up, but maybe via her link to my best friend she’s learned to appreciate my idea of a joke. “I’m sure Captain Archer will stand bail for you, Lieutenant.”

Trip erupted at the implication. I imagine she knew he would. “Hey, now wait a minute…”

We parted amicably, with her good wishes and, oddly enough, it felt like her blessing. “She’s okay, you know,” he told me very seriously while I folded my few used possessions into the holdall and he stuffed his in willy-nilly. “She didn’t mean t’ hurt us – any of us.”

“You know the one about the road to hell?” He was right and I’m too fair-minded not to admit it. “Just – be patient with me, Trip. She’s had a part of you that I can’t touch and it’s going to take me some time to rationalise… everything.”

“Oh, Malcolm!” Every time he snogs me the past recedes a little bit further: fortunately he’s been snogging me a lot of late. “She never had _anything_ of me, I can see it now. Even when things were hot an’ heavy between us it was never _me_ , not really. With you – you ground me. I always knew who Trip Tucker was when I was with you. Around everybody else I was just… playin’ a part. Damn, I’m a jerk! How’d I not know all that time?

“I love you, Malcolm Reed. Always have, always will. So: how about we finish up our packing and I’ll give you a lil’ hint of what I got planned for this vacation…”

*

Bloody hell, it’s getting hotter.

Actually I don’t think that’s possible: it’s been blistering ever since we arrived. It’s just the rise in my body temperature, triggered by a vivid memory of Trip’s sledgehammer approach to _little hints_ that has me shuffling back into the shade of our enormous beach umbrella. Even while he’s splashing away in the sea it seems I can feel his hands gliding over me; his mouth, wet and demanding on my neck; my nipples. 

I daren’t let myself imagine it any lower.

Our intimate moments were a revelation when T’Pol was still hot-wired into them. Since she’s gone they’ve been… transcendent. 

If it was even possible I’d have to say he’s even more obsessed with me than I am with him, and over the last month every millimetre of my anatomy has been given the rigorous Tucker treatment. Last night he spent an age just kissing and lapping his way up and down my right forearm: nuzzling it, nipping the muscles and leaving his loving mark on my wrist. Apparently my _sexy arms_ drive him crazy and Starfleet should cut the sleeves off its uniforms.

I’d love to see that memo to Admiral Gardner!

And I’ve just found a handy trick for deflating an unwanted erection. Put Admiral Gardner and my love life in the same sentence. I assume that’s what a certain Southerner of my acquaintance would call _brain bleach_.

This morning he ignored my arms; went straight for the nipples instead. It didn’t take him long to realise how sensitive I am there and he’s been determined to make me come just by playing with them since we got here. He’s almost there, but I refuse to make it easy for him. People think we’re polar opposites but in our addiction to a challenge we’re actually very much alike, and the longer I hold out, the greater my reward will be. 

As if having Trip Tucker in my bed, worshipping me with that magnificent body, wasn’t reward enough!

He’s all mine now, exactly as he promised. Everything is my thoughts; my wishes; my needs. He could turn me into the world’s most selfish bastard quite easily if he keeps up this heavenly attentiveness.

I suppose it’ll be a bit difficult on Enterprise, but that's all the more reason to savour it now and I’ve already agreed: next chance we get, we’re coming back.

Really, how could I resist more lazy morning lovemaking; more splashy paddles in the warm surf? More long lunches followed by a nap and some of that _making out_ he does so well. We’ve done our tourist duty, spent an afternoon wandering around the nearest town and buying souvenirs. 

We’ve even hired a boat: one never forgets these things and I’m a dab hand on a tiller, aquaphobia notwithstanding. “The best way to deal with fears is to face them head on,” I pointed out when he questioned it. I’ve just always been better at that in the physical, rather than the emotional, sphere.

Until I found him.

Belatedly I’m aware of him looming out of the waves, his gaze riveted on me as he throws off his snorkel. “Either that book sucks or you’ve come down with the Vulcan translation,” he teases, that luscious honey drawl almost liquid in the heat of the sun. “Malcolm, you’ve been starin’ at the same page for the last ten minutes! You okay?”

“Wonderful.” And getting better the closer he approaches. I’ve always thought those skin-tight swimming costumes were faintly absurd, but they do have one very obvious advantage.

They cling to every curve and line, displaying his bulge as if he were naked. I can’t drag my eyes off it and that’s not polite, is it? I really ought to look away.

When he collapses into the shade, drenching me with warm seawater as he pulls me into his arms, I discover he doesn’t mind my rudeness one bit.

“You looked a billion light years away,” he whispers, rubbing our bare chests together and I have to cling on to steady myself. Earth always seems to tilt on its axis when he does that. “You’re happy, yeah?”

“Deliriously.” If it’s reassurance he wants, I can provide it. I just won’t remember why by the time I’m done. 

What was I thinking about?

It doesn’t matter. Nothing does now I’ve got his whole weight pressing me into the sand; his laughing eyes the perfect azure of the ocean itself ravishing me as the sunlight catches on the pure gold lights it’s bleached into his hair. “Bed?” he suggests, pulling back far enough to pluck my hand off his bicep. I’m not the only one with very nice arms, by the way.

“No.” I can’t believe that’s the voice of discreet, sensible Malcolm Reed, the small word’s so full of smoke and sexual promise. And yes, those really are my fingers, working under the waistband of his trunks. He stiffens; stares, jaw dropping as my reckless intention becomes clear.

I’m brazen, sprawled beneath him. “Here?” he mouths. Too much blood to the cock and none spare for the vocal chords, Mister Tucker? 

“Here.” I’m blazing and it’s nothing to do with the Tahitian sun. Burning despite the droplets of water still dripping from his hair. This is what I came here for. He promised me paradise and Trip Tucker is a man of his word.

Finally, my man.


End file.
